"Oh, my dear, if you would only speak--only let out your feelings a
little; for you must feel this day so; I'm sure I do, just as if it were my
own wedding day, or Isabella's, or Sarah Jane's. And when they do
come to be married, poor lambs! I hope it will be as good a match as
you are making--only, perhaps, not a widower. But I beg your pardon.
Oh, Miss Oakley, my dear, we shall miss you so!"

And the good woman, who had a heart--and hearts are worth
something--clasped the orphan-bride to her broad bosom, and shed over
her a torrent of honest tears.

"Thank you," Christian said, and returned the kiss gently, but no tears
came to her eyes.

"And now," added Mrs. Ferguson, recovering herself, "I'll go and see
that every thing is right; and I'll get my warm tartan shawl for you to
travel in. It is a terrible snowy day still. You'll come down stairs
presently?"

"Yes."

But the instant Mrs. Ferguson was gone Christian locked the door. The
same look, of more than pain--actual fear--crossed her face. She stood
motionless, as if trying to collect herself, and then, with her hands all
shaking, took from her traveling-trunk a sealed packet. For a second
she seemed irresolute, and only a second.

"It must be done--it is right. I ought to have done it before--Good-by
forever."